I remember the feel of your calloused fingers after spending the weekend playing guitar for me.
The switch from guitar pick to none was gradual with electric to unplugged hours deep into the night.
Too focused on the size difference between our hands, I did not notice the way you tried to catch a glimpse of my eyes.
I remember the strength in your grip, your hand latched to mine as you helped pull me up off the floor.
I always wondered if you noticed the way mine lingered a moment longer than was necessary, trying to burn the feel of your hands into my memory.
And I guess it worked because that's one thing I could never forget; your hands.
See, your hands held magic within the palms, your fingertips dripped embers every time they brushed against my skin.
They started tiny fires, lighting me up like a Christmas tree with every touch given to me like presents.
Your hands were magic, not deceiving; they did not trick me with their intentions.
I loved your hands.
I loved the way I could talk to them when your smile took all the thoughts in my head and hid them around my mind so I did not have time to collect them into coherent sentences.
Or when your eyes would stop time, daring me to take a breath deep enough to fill my lungs when it had been knocked out of me.
As much as I loved those hands, I loved the person attached to them even more.
But sometimes it is just easier to 'talk to the hand.'
